jasmine
by achieving elysium
Summary: After a war and after a break-up, Keith and Lance attempt to figure out where they stand with each other and what they mean to each other now that it's over. As the Galra Empire crumbles, the two face a completely different enemy—themselves. Love is never easy.


**one**

It starts when Lance grabs Keith's hand. It isn't until Keith twines their fingers together that they realize what they're doing. Lance swallows past the lump in his throat.

"Sorry," they both blurt.

"I shouldn't have," Lance says, and it kind of hurts.

Keith shrugs with a shoulder. "I didn't stop you, anyway."

Lance stuffs his hands in his pockets so he doesn't do it again. Keith studies him, cocking his head and pinning him under the weight of his gaze. They know each other too well.

"You good?"

"Ha," Lance says. It's not a no, exactly, but it's definitely not a yes. "Come on. We gotta hurry, or we'll be late."

Keith's lips quirk up into a half-smile. Lance knows the words that'll come out of his mouth even before he says them.

"Race you there."

"You're on."

They chase each other through the halls, taking the twists and turns that by now they know by heart. When Lance glances behind him, he catches a real smile on Keith's face, and it makes his heart glow, just a bit.

He barely beats out Keith, bursting through the door a second before him.

"Fuck you," Keith gasps out between breaths, and Lance laughs.

"Wouldn't you like to."

Keith clears his throat, the smile on his face disappearing, and Lance turns his attention to his clothing, smoothing out all the folds. Allura had wanted them dressed in a mix of ceremonial armor and what he guesses is traditional Altean clothing—in all honesty, it makes him feel like he's walked into a fantasy world.

Then again, he thinks, he's in outer space with giant sentient lion-robots and an alien princess who looks more like an elf. So fantasy isn't _so_ far off.

"Ah," Allura says, breaking the awkward silence that's fallen over them. "There you are."

She runs a critical eye over their outfits and nods approvingly. Lance trails his fingers over the ornate breastplate and the gauntlets he's got on. His favorite part is by far the designs—on his chest is a gilded lion that matches the others' armor. His gauntlets, though, are decorated with waves. Pretty cool.

There's not much else in terms of armor: a piece here, a piece there. Under it, he's in a plain tunic and pants, though they're hemmed with gold thread and decorated. They're surprisingly comfortable. Lance is kind of tempted to switch a couple t-shirts out.

"Are we all ready?" Shiro asks. He looks a bit uncomfortable in his outfit, but Lance has to say that he looks _good_. And it's so much more interesting than his usual black-vest-shirt-pants-everything.

"Yep," Pidge says.

"Yeah," Hunk replies.

When Shiro glances over at him, Lance sends him finger guns. Keith sighs next to him, and without looking, Lance can tell he's rolling his eyes.

"Yes, Shiro."

Shiro smiles at all of them. His eyes are bright—like they have been recently, after the war finished—and though the shadows that usually shroud him aren't gone completely, Lance can see a bit of light poking through. Hope, he figures, is a good look on Shiro.

"Alright, team Voltron."

Lance can't help the answering smile on his face.

Unfortunately, the good mood doesn't last. They're off to _another_ meeting like they've been doing for the past… ugh, Lance doesn't even know.

It passes by in a blur. He spews words like he's memorized them from a textbook and greets aliens like a cashier during the last hour of his shift. None of it seems quite real.

It's not that he doesn't like going to all the different planets and meeting the people who are now all free. It's both heartwarming and heartbreaking to meet everyone, to hear their stories, to touch hands and smile and cry until every bone in his body is exhausted.

He's starting to carry this itch under his skin, though. It's always there, lurking under the surface, even after night after night of cold showers and digging his nails into his skin without drawing blood.

Lance wants to go home.

Keith bumps his shoulder, and Lance is tugged out of his thoughts. He hadn't even realized he'd zoned out. It's lucky that the feast has begun, so he hasn't missed anything too important.

He doesn't even remember anything he's said, though, just remembers the melancholy that drew over him halfway through their meeting with the Eludax.

"Hey," Keith says, voice low. "Focus, sharpshooter. That's what you're good at, yeah?"

Lance stares at his sort-of fork and nods. He stabs a piece of food that looks like red jello and pops it into his mouth.

"Thanks," he whispers.

He feels another pair of eyes on him and looks up to see Shiro, gaze worried.

"Alright?"

Lance chews thoughtfully.

"Peachy," he says.

Shiro raises an eyebrow and gestures with his utensil. "If you have to leave…"

Lance lets his shoulders drop. "I'm fine, Shiro." He takes a swig of the juice and almost spits it out. "Oh, Jesus, that's— interesting. Uh, anyway, Keith'll keep me sane."

Shiro's lips flatten a little. "Alright."

Across the table, Hunk and Pidge look like they're having fun. They've built a little structure out of sliced fruit, and when Lance peers closer, he realizes it's meant to be mini-Voltron.

Lance shovels more food in his mouth and looks around the dining hall. It's quite beautiful, made of blue stone—totally his color—and accented in silver that glints like moonlight. At the head of the table is the queen, chatting amicably away with Allura.

She's pretty, a bird-like creature with feathers that glimmer in the light. Everything about her is light and dainty, but the scars and her sharp smile are a giant warning sign.

"What," Keith drawls, and his tone is both amused and bitter. "You like her?"

"Mm," Lance responds, averting his eyes. "Not my type."

"What's your type, then?"

Lance snorts. "Oh, come _on_ , Keith."

They don't speak much after that. It's a bit of a harsh reminder of why they'd broken up in the first place, though, and it makes his mood sink even lower.

After dinner they're asked to dance. It's no problem; Shiro politely offers to dance with the queen, and Allura makes a beeline for Lance. He grins at her.

"Need a partner, princess?"

Allura sighs. "Unfortunately," she says, but she's only teasing.

He and Allura are pretty good dance partners, as it turns out. Well, of course Allura is: she's a princess, so she's good at like, everything. Lance knows enough about dancing from his sisters that picking up this stuff for all their formal events.

They start off simple, all easy steps that look more impressive than they are. As they spin around, Lance spots Keith at the edges of the crowd, scowling. His mouth goes dry, but he doesn't say anything.

"You looked troubled earlier," Allura notes. "Are you alright?"

Lance shrugs. She's too perceptive and smart for him to lie.

"I dunno," he says. "Even though the war's over, our jobs aren't done."

"No," Allura says. "They're not."

"I just," Lance starts, but he sighs. "I dunno, 'llura. I'm glad it's all over, and I know being a paladin means we have to keep going. Diplomacy. Tracking down prisons and old bases. All that stuff. And the universe still needs us, so I'll be here. But-"

"I know," Allura says. "You want to go home."

They spin sharply, and Allura's dress flares. The blue fabric flows like glittering water, and he's reminded of _his_ ocean and the distant taste of salt.

"I want to go home," Lance says in a small voice.

The music slows, and they let go of each other. Lance bows, and Allura does the same.

"You'll get to," Allura promises, and then she's gone, swept up by one of the Eludax.

He's approached and asked to dance, but Lance politely declines. Everything suddenly feels stuffy, and he chases away the feeling, ducking out of the room and wandering in the hall.

From a distance, warm light peeks through, and Lance spares it another glance before he escapes into the cold night.

There's footsteps behind him. Lance doesn't have the strength to tell Keith to go away.

"Want a drink?"

There's a glass in front of his face, and Lance takes it, squinting at the liquid inside. He lifts it to his nose and can tell it's space alcohol, so Lance takes a sip and then another and lets his throat burn.

Keith looks amused.

"I'm surprised," Keith says. "One dance and you were done."

Lance grunts. "Not in the mood."

They stand together, close but not too close. He sweeps his gaze across the stars, wondering when he'll get to see the ones he remembers.

"See anything cool?" he asks. Lance imagines being on the roof of his home with Keith, the two of them blanketed in stars that they'd travelled among. An old dream.

"Do you see the lion?"

Lance squints at the stars. "Nope."

Keith huffs. He uses a finger and points between a cluster of stars, drawing invisible lines.

"There, see?"

Lance cranes his neck. "Still don't see it, mullet."

Keith groans. "I haven't had a mullet in a long time, Lance."

No, of course he hasn't. Keith had let his hair grow out almost to his waist before half of it had been chopped off in a fight. Now it sits at his shoulders, though he keeps it in a ponytail most of the time.

Lance is kind of tempted to pull it free and run his fingers through it the way he used to, or pull tiny sections of hair to braid. It makes him think of those quiet nights together, tangled bodies in the dark.

He misses those nights almost as much as he misses Earth.

By the time he's had most of his glass, Lance is a little buzzed. He can tell Keith is, too, which means they're probably going to do something stupid.

"We should head back to the party," he says.

"They won't miss us."

"Fuck," Lance says before he can stop himself. "I miss you, Keith."

"We're two feet away, Lance."

He swirls the drink in his glass, admiring the pale purple color before taking another sip.

"Oh, you know what I mean."

Keith's expression is sharp. Lance knows that he's shoving all his feelings behind words and this half-real anger, but then Keith's face goes soft.

"Yeah," he offers, "me, too."

Lance leans out to study the stars more. Keith drags a hand over his face, and he looks tired suddenly.

"Sometimes I wish we'd made it work," Keith says.

"You know it never will."

They both sigh at the same time.

"Let's dance," Keith blurts. He sets his glass down on the railing and opens his arms wide.

Lance frowns. "Dance?"

"Don't tell me you don't know how," Keith teases, and Lance puts his glass down and links their hands. The touch is electric, and when Keith steps closer, Lance tastes lightning on the tip of his tongue.

It's not really a dance. It's more like shuffling back and forth and a lot of swaying, but Lance likes it.

Keith rests his head against Lance's chest for a moment. He takes a deep breath before pulling back.

"Keith," he says, but the words die.

"Let's pretend," Keith responds, words muffled. He looks up at Lance through his lashes, and his eyes are dark and dangerous in that it makes Lance want to kiss him. "Just for a moment."

This is stupid.

This is stupid, and wrong, and Lance knows that they need to stop right _now_. But he runs his tongue over his teeth and lets himself be young and dumb.

"Okay," Lance says quietly.

Keith starts humming, a slow, sweet tune that Lance recognizes. It's the same song he used to play on loop in the background whenever they'd danced together in their— _Keith's_ —room. They usually never got very far with dancing before making out, but Lance has those moments etched in his mind.

Keith's hand burns in his.

"Keith," he says again, but his voice cracks. They still, holding each other. Keith's body is familiar, warm against his.

"Lance," Keith says. He hesitates for a moment. "Can I kiss you?"

Lance almost says no, but he searches Keith's face in the starlight. His heart aches with _yes_ , so he presses his fingers behind Keith's neck and kisses him.

It's sweet and soft and sad. Keith grips his hand tightly the entire time, and Lance understands the kiss for what it is: all the words they haven't said to each other yet.

 _I love you._

 _Thank you._

 _Goodbye._

When they pull apart, Keith squeezes Lance's hand a last time and then lets go, taking a step back.

Lance feels like he's been set on fire. The world around him is soft at the edges as he faces the boy he loves. In between them is a great divide with a crumbling bridge they're both still balancing on.

Keith and Lance, Lance and Keith, just as they're supposed to be. He doesn't quite know where they are anymore, but they're still a team—and as long as Keith wants him in his life, he'll be there.

Lance picks up his glass from the railing and raises it in Keith's direction.

"To us," he says.

Keith smiles, taking his own. The glasses clink together.

"To us."


End file.
